The Corpses Left on Your Doorstep
by carved in the sand
Summary: He is not an open man. He will not let you walk into his heart, let you dirty it up just because you could. He will not. But then, he'll look at Rukia, and his eyes turn into windows; this is why she could always see right through him - ichiruki


Ichigo was not an open person.

Maybe it was his perpetual scowl, or maybe it was his horridly intimidating height, or the fact that his hair color eclipsed the brightness of the sun, but he'd grown up reclusive. He did not share his life stories dramatically at coffee shops. All the poetry and the plays he's devoured haven't turned him melodramatic at all.

So he kept to himself, kept his feelings buried deep inside his ribs where no one could get at them. There were cob webs stretching over them from their emptiness, lack of warmth.

He wasn't a very warm person, either.

There were nasty demons from his past that still clung to his back, and it was hard, trying to shake them off as they latched into him more painfully as time wore on. The sank cold right into his bone marrow. He bore scars from their claws.

So when he he was lying on his bed that night, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about his mother and her smile and her perpetual warmth and her strength and her insanity to ever deal with his father - staring up at his ceiling contemplating his mother for the hundredth thousandth time and all the scars she had before she left him, the window slid open.

Ichigo's eyes slid as well, sitting up half way to inspect his visitor. Her presence had long ago blinked into existence, his consciousness just dimly aware of her.

A week without her had made him disorientated to her presence again, like he was still going to school with the freakish Shinigami girl.

The feel of her reiatsu was familiar and terrifying and relieving all at once, a sense of exhilaration that she was alive and beautiful and _there_, seizing his heart into a knot.

"Why are you here?" he asks gruffly, scowling at the moonlight filtering into his room.

Dressed in her Shinigami robe and sans zanpakuto, she shrugged her tiny shoulders. There was an almost-smile curling on her lips. "Because I love seeing your disgusting face in the middle of the night."

"You look pretty disgusting right now, actually," Ichigo muttered, staring at the patch over her right eye and the ghost of a scar running along the expanse of her forehead. He sat up in bed, leaning over his raised knees to face her fully.

"I'm glad you're not dead, by the way." He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, trying not to sound pained.

Rukia's lips curled widely, and honestly. "You too, Strawberry."

He groaned in aggravation, scratching the back of his head. "I'm actually surprised they sent you back so early. What are you doing here, midget?"

"I snuck out, actually" she answered noncommittally, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. Rukia turned into a sixteen year old girl at that moment, young and causing too much trouble. Familiar. "Once I returned to Soul Society and my division, I needed information that no one was willing to give. So if I get fired, I'm leaving Soul Society and living with you."

"Nice one."

"Of course."

"I'll still stuff you in the closet, you know," he challenged.

"Actually," Rukia countered, crossing her legs pointedly, "I'm taking the bed this time. I'm exiling you to the closet. Then I can redecorate the room. There is a distinct lack of Chappy in this room."

Ichigo chuckled lowly, trudging lazily over towards the windowsill, and plopping a seat next to the small, dark-haired girl. Discreetly, he took in a lungful of the air surrounding her. Old, stale graveyards and wilted flowers crept into his thoughts, turning his stomach anxiously, too strong to be any normal human scent or perfume.

The smell was still as dizzying as the first time.

Now, he relished in the taste of death and the sharp sweetness. He'd missed it clogging up his chest, like her presence at his window in the middle of the night.

He could have sat next to her all night. It had been a while since they'd had an honest, quiet moment together by themselves.

"What happened to Renji?" Rukia murmured, violet eyes liquid with concern. Ichigo grinned.

"He's been trained by the dude who invented the zanpakuto up there." There was a pause, where he took another deep breath in. He could not keep away the wave of bitterness that coated his insides. "He kicked me out because he said I wasn't….ready yet."

"Oh, Ichigo." Her voice was borderline motherly.

"I'm fine, Rukia."

She rolled her eyes, hand clasping onto her forearm, when he turned fully to her. Her expression was stern and prideful. "Renji is no more of a warrior than you, but he's had _decades_ of proper education and experience. He's been fighting before you were born, Ichigo. It would be surprising if you were ready for that sort of advanced training."

Ichigo scoffed, lip curling in a pout. He knew he was being a brat, but he really couldn't give a fuck. Renji hasn't had the the type of battles that he's had. Renji hasn't broken himself the way he has.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Ichigo muttered. "I'm _fine_, Rukia."

"Good." Her hand held his arm tighter. "Just wait a hundred years. You'll be able to turn everyone into dust. They'll all cower at the sight of your strawberry hair."

"Shut the hell up. I don't want strength to be _strong_. You know that," he muttered. "I want to protect people. I want to be strong enough to protect people."

"You've been doing your job, then."

Ichigo reached up with the hand she wasn't holding, tracing the faint scar across her forehead, and then tapping the edges of her bandaged eye. "Not well enough, obviously."

"Fool. This was me protecting _you_," Rukia muttered, releasing him and swatting away his hand. She held onto her lieutenant badge and frowned dimly at him. "I have strength that I must use to protect as well. You cannot hide me in a closet forever and let me rot away for the sake of my safety."

"I can try," Ichigo muttered.

"And I wouldn't let you. Men far better and graceful have tried doing so. So please _do_ stop being so moody. Focus on fighting the battles to come. You will have plenty of enemies to slaughter, then. Much to protect."

The mention of battles to come twisted his stomach painfully, making his shoulders sag and heave sigh. He didn't want her to be right, but she was, and he could feel it with every cell in his body.

"My Dad told me about my Mom last week," Ichigo murmured. Rukia's eyes snapped open wide.

He turned to her, almost calculating, honey brown eyes pools of light amidst the purple blackness that shaded his room into night. He stared at her like she was the moon in the sky.

He had all these nasty demons, ghosts from his past, skeletons in his closet dancing a deadly just to mock him of everything he couldn't do and everyone he couldn't save and all people he let be hurt. And he had these scars that he wished he could hide better.

He did not want to be open, but how long had she been peering at his old wounds and helping to stitch him up?

"Are you alright?" Rukia murmured. He was already beginning to stand though, going for the second drawer on his dresser and pulling out a cardigan.

"Let's go outside. We can talk better there," he said, tightening the strings to his flannel pants and walking back towards the window.

Rukia nodded, almost carefully, too poised like she was when she was anxious. Ichigo reached out and pulled up the window all the way, sinking into the cool summer night's air.

He jumped out the window lithely, landing with a dull thud, and looked up to see Rukia following after him. He watched he jumped, almost floating to the ground at least twelve times more graceful than him.

When she straightened, she looked up expectantly, but Ichigo just turned and started walking.

"So my mom was a Quincy, and my Dad was a Shinigami captain," he started. He took in the scent of dead flowers again as his shoulder brushed against his, still eternally silent as they made their way along the sidewalk. "And then it just gets weirder from there."

They walked up the street, following the shimmering of the moonlight against the concrete.


End file.
